He felt her nod against his chest. “And anything out there that tries to hurt you is going to have me to deal with.”
She laughed, albeit shakily, then drew away. “I know it’s foolish of me,” she repeated, “but seeing that coastline … Uncle, I can’t remember a thing, but somehow I recognized the place. And those drums!” She shuddered. “They’re eerie.”
Dumont frowned. “Drums? I heard nothing.”
Larissa went pale. “I thought I heard … well, it must have been my imagination, I suppose. I can’t hear them now.”
Her guardian laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “What an odd little thing you are! You tackle creatures from the mist without so much as a by-your-leave and yet a marshy little island frightens you. There’s nothing here that’s going to hurt you, child. I promise. You don’t even have to leave the boat if you don’t want to.”
His voice had changed, taken on the slightest tinge of condescension. Larissa’s pride, which had fled before the island’s appearance, surged back on a hot wave of embarrassment. It was more important to her that Dumont think well of her than that she be comforted.
“No, Uncle, that won’t be necessary,” she replied crisply. She rose, steadying herself. “I’m fine now. I’m going to my cabin for a bit. Thank you.”
Dumont watched her as she let herself out of his cabin, closing the door firmly behind her. There was grace and an innocent power in her movements. Slowly, a smile twisted the captain’s lips. Larissa’s frantic visit had given him a marvelous idea.
THREE
To Handsome Jack, the amazingly ugly chief pilot of La Demoiselle du Musarde, the coastline was anything but a nightmare. There was plenty of room for the boat’s docking, and already a crowd was gathering on the pier. Because of the attack of the mist monster and the subsequent excitement of sighting the real coastline, he was alone in the pilothouse for the moment.
The pilothouse was larger and more habitable than most. The pilots—Handsome Jack, Tane, and Jahedrin—rotated six-hour shifts. Generally, two pilots, or a pilot and a first or second mate, were in the pilothouse during a shift. The wheel was huge, bigger than any of the men who maneuvered it, and hard to turn. Often a pilot would find himself standing on one of the spokes, using his own weight to help turn the wheel. This physical requirement of piloting eliminated the clever but slender Dragoneyes from the post, though few of the true pilots could navigate quite as well as the sharp-sighted half-elf.
There was a comfortable chaise for those who were in the pilothouse merely to keep the pilot company. The whistle was within easy reach of the wheel, as was the voice tube and ship’s telegraph, by which the pilot communicated with the engine room in the stern. Large windows provided a full view of the river directly in front and to port and starboard. Behind the pilot, a narrow stairway led directly to Dumont’s cabin.
Jack reached over and pulled the lever on the boat telegraph to “slow.” He grinned to himself. The three livid white scars, running the length and breadth of his face from right temple to left ear, wrinkled grotesquely with the gesture.
The tall, beefy Handsome Jack was quite proud of those scars. He bragged that he had gotten them in a hand-to-jaw struggle with a wolf back in Arkandale. When he was drunk, which was often, the tale grew in the telling until his opponent was a werewolf—“An’ very highly placed in society he was, too, I tells you. Hoo, I could tell tales of the riverboats in that country!” he’d slur.
Those within hearing who were sober enough to worry about such things would exchange glances. Handsome Jack might well be telling the truth, they’d mutter to themselves; gods knew he’d shown up one night on La Demoiselle, shaking and begging for a job that would take him out of Arkandale.…
“Ah, she’s a pretty maiden, aye,
A pretty maiden she,
But my poor heart’s already bound
To the Lady of the Sea!
The Lady of the Sea, hey, hey,
Has put her spell on me,
I’m doomed to love no other than
The Lady of the Sea.”
What Handsome Jack’s voice lacked in musical quality—and it was a great deal—was more than made up for in enthusiasm and sheer volume. This was his favorite number from The Pirate’s Pleasure, and, in his own pleasure at finally sighting land after floundering in the fog, he belted out the number with gusto.
“Damn you, Jack, you know you’re not supposed to sing on my boat!” exploded Dumont as he climbed up the stairs from his cabin.
Jack cringed like a whipped dog. Every captain had his superstitions, and one of Dumont’s was singing on the boat. Only cast members were permitted to sing, and even they had to restrict themselves to songs from the show.
“Sorry, Cap’n, I just forgot, that’s all. You know I’m not meanin’ no harm, sir.”
Dumont’s displeasure did not fade. Handsome Jack’s statement was true enough, as far as it went. He never did “mean no harm.” Not when he was drunk and came perilously close to grounding the boat. Not when he leered at some of the more attractive patrons, causing them to bridle and complain and swear never to set foot on La Demoiselle again. Not when he sang contrary to direct orders.
Jack had his uses. When sober, he was the finest pilot aboard the boat. Not even Dragoneyes possessed Jack’s instinct for negotiating unknown territory. He’d been loyal and worked hard, almost pathetically grateful for the job Dumont had given him.
“Yes,” Dumont sighed at last, “I know you meant no harm, Jacky my lad.”
Handsome Jack grinned with relief. “You’re a gentleman, sir, through and through, that’s what I always said. Here, Cap’n.” Stepping aside, he offered the bigger man the wheel. It was Dumont’s custom to always bring La Demoiselle into port himself, though the rest of the time he left the piloting to Jack or the other pilots.
Dumont took the huge wheel, which was taller even than he. His strong hands closed about it possessively as he gazed at the approaching dock. He reached up after a moment and pulled on the whistle, causing it to shrill loudly.
“Jacky,” mused Dumont, his eyes on the dock as he turned the wheel gently to starboard, “did you see the battle with the mist creature?”
“Aye, sir, that I did. What a brilliant move, to use the waves against the—”
“Yes, yes. But did you see Miss Snowmane risking her life down there?”
Jack gulped. It was obvious that Dumont wanted to hear something specific, but the pilot wasn’t sure what. “Uh … aye, sir, I did.” He hazarded a guess. “Mighty brave for a girl, don’t you think, sir?”
Dumont turned his hard gaze upon his pilot, and Jack shrank back even farther. “Gods, man, she’s my ward and my leading dancer. Brave or not, she shouldn’t be on deck when there’s danger!” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “I need to teach Miss Snowmane a lesson, and I’d like you to help.”
Jack’s eyes bugged. “Me, sir? ’Course, sir!”
Dumont suppressed a smile. He kept his voice calm and friendly.
“I’m glad you’re willing, Jack. We’ll be docking in a few moments, and I’ll be going ashore to meet with the leader of the town. Then, tomorrow, we’ll have our—”
“Parade!” Jack answered happily. “Cap’n, you’re goin’ to let me see the parade?”
The thought of actually seeing the performances Jack heard each night through the walls of the sailors’ quarters thrilled the pilot. It was customary for the riverboat’s cast to parade down the main avenue in costume, and then perform a scene or two from the show. Many of the towns they came to were so starved for entertainment that a glimpse of the magic and music they could experience aboard La Demoiselle was generally more than enough to ensure a packed house.
Dumont had always been careful to segregate the players and the crew, and he had never permitted crewmen to watch the parade. Apparently, and to Jack’s disappointment, this time was to be no different.
“No, Jacky, I’m afraid I can’t do that. You know the r
ules.” Jack’s face fell, the remorse on his homely features causing him to appear even less attractive. “As I was saying, we’ll have the traditional parade. Afterward, when the cast and the townsfolk are milling about, Miss Snowmane will be accosted by a, shall we say, rather shady character.” He looked meaningfully at Jack.
Jack’s thick brows knotted together ponderously. “Me?”
“You, Jacky lad. Disguised, of course. You shall threaten poor Miss Snowmane, and I’ll hurry to her rescue. Then you’ll run away into the darkness and back to the boat while I tell Miss Snowmane how dangerous it is to take foolish risks.” He intensified his gaze. “I can count on you, can’t I, Jack?”
Handsome Jack nodded vigorously.
“I thought so. Why don’t you go to the dining room and let Brock cook you up something? Tell him I said it was all right.”
“Thank you, sir.” Handsome Jack touched his greasy forelock and left, licking his lips at the thought of Brock’s fine food.
Dumont watched him go, a sneer of contempt twisting his strong features. He had had enough of Jack and his lapses, and what he had planned after the parade would finally free him of the fool.
The captain returned his attention to the dock. There was a good-sized crowd on the pier now. The boat was close enough for Dumont to see faces that registered understandable suspicion. He’d lay their fears to rest soon enough, he and the dazzling performers of La Demoiselle. Reaching up, he pulled a rope and the riverboat’s whistle blasted forth again. The captain smiled as some of the people on the dock jumped, startled.
Some of the denizens of this place—what was it Larissa had called it? Souragne, that was the name—were extremely well-dressed. One young, dark-haired dandy sported what appeared to be a silk tunic and fine leather boots. The youth turned to get a better view of the steamboat, and something glinted in the sunlight. Jewelry, Dumont noted with a sharp eye. The dandy’s companion, a comely dark-skinned lass, was equally well attired. Earrings dripped from her ears, matching the sparkle of the jewels about her long, slim throat.
Standing right next to the wealthy couple was a thin, tall man in shabby clothes. The pair maneuvered away from him, distaste on their aristocratic features. Here and there were the haunted, grimy faces of street children, peeking out carefully and curiously. The dazzling sight of La Demoiselle du Musarde had distracted the urchins from their usual job of picking pockets and had apparently caught the attention of the whole town.
Dumont sounded the whistle once more and pulled the riverboat to the dock with a smoothness born of years of practice. From his vantage point, he could see his crewmen scurrying to place down the ramp. The people on the dock drew back, fear replacing curiosity.
Dumont’s mind was not on the activities of his crew, but on the people and place he was about to encounter. The town appeared to promise diversity. Dumont could see stately manors in the distance that contrasted sharply with the shabby buildings that huddled along the dock. It appeared that the agricultural community fared better here than the fishermen did. Probably that soft-looking young dandy hailed from one of those lavish mansions, bred to a life of ease by his great-grandfather’s labor, or perhaps the unsavory sweat of slaves. The dock area’s run-down appearance spoke of shadier doings and more immediate wealth—and danger.
Such a lovely jumble of things from which to choose, Dumont mused to himself with a slow smile. There would be many new and exciting things here for him to experience—new customs, new ideas, new creatures. Many an attractive woman had wondered why the handsome, wealthy Dumont hadn’t settled down in one land—or at least confined himself to one waterway.
But variety called with a siren song that drowned out any other call: variety in people, place, terrain, knowledge, adventures. That keen pleasure forbade Dumont from making any one place his home. The tall, strong captain was too much in love with diversity.
As for business, the dandies and their mansions boded well for the financial success of The Pirate’s Pleasure, while the seamy underbelly of the town promised evenings rife with less wholesome entertainment.
Dumont’s smile widened into a predatory grin. The crewmen secured the boat to the dock, and the captain hastened down the ramp.
The first thing Dumont noticed when he stepped outside the pilothouse was the humidity and heat. It was still early in the day, but already the air was warm and thick. It had been chilly in Darkon, but here summer was well on its way. A thin layer of perspiration began to coat his face before he had even set foot on land.
A small, spidery man, clad in a splendidly embroidered blue tunic that seemed a bit too large for him, moved toward the front of the throng. An ornate silver chain was draped about his scrawny throat. The crowd parted to allow him passage. When he reached Dumont, the man craned his neck to look up at him, hooked his thumbs in his well-tooled leather belt, and cleared his throat.
“My name is Bernard Foquelaine,” he said in a thin, high-pitched voice. “I am the mayor of Port d’Elhour, here on the island of Souragne. We do not often have strangers in our land, as you might imagine. What is your purpose in visiting our isle?”
So, Larissa had been right about the place’s name, the captain thought to himself. Dumont put on his best smile, the one that showed off his white teeth to advantage. He stuck out a big hand. Tentatively, Foquelaine took it in his own moist palm.
“Mayor Foquelaine, I am very pleased to visit your lovely town. I am Captain Raoul Dumont, and this is my vessel, La Demoiselle du Musarde. She’s a showboat, sir, with the finest entertainment available in any land. We come as visitors, friends, and honest performers.”
Foquelaine’s watery blue eyes brightened a bit, but he remained tense. Behind him, the crowd began murmuring excitedly. “What kind of entertainment?” he queried.
Sensing the shift in attention, Dumont began to address the crowd. “Why, all kinds, ladies and gentlemen. We have a musical, The Pirate’s Pleasure, that features dancing, singing, and the best in thespian skill. There’s always an honest game of cards to be had, and—”
“Ye got any fire-eaters?” called the man who had stood next to the wealthy couple. He was every bit as grubby as Dumont had suspected, and smelled as if he hadn’t bathed in far too long.
Without missing a beat or losing his smile, Dumont turned and pointed at the man. “Indeed, sir, we do, and a host of fine magicians who will perform acts that will amaze and astonish you. Mayor Foquelaine, may I have your permission to dock here in your fair port and entertain your populace for the most modest of fees?”
Foquelaine hesitated, blinking rapidly. “Well …”
“Let me give you—all of you—an opportunity to experience a taste of what an evening aboard La Demoiselle will be like. Tomorrow at twilight, my cast will perform a few scenes from our show. And good sir,” Dumont added, turning and addressing the filthy man as if he were royalty, “the fire-eaters and jugglers and illusionists will be out in full force for your entertainment.”
“Hmmm,” mused Foquelaine, still not completely convinced. “How much is this going to cost?”
Dumont let himself beam in an avuncular fashion. “Not a copper, Mayor. This is my gift. And if you don’t like what you see, my cast and I will just go right back on our boat and steam away. Do we have a deal?”
Mayor Foquelaine was obviously not comfortable with the idea, but he could sense his people’s excitement. There was little in their lives as bright or beautiful as the showboat. Few traveled out of the mists to visit Souragne, and most who did were haunted, broken souls or evil, greedy wanderers.
“Very well,” Foquelaine yielded. “Your crew may come ashore as well.”
Dumont smiled the smile of a hungry tiger. All was going according to plan.
The minute that he returned to La Demoiselle, Dumont rounded up seven of his crewmen and took them into his cabin. The men stood at attention as Dumont ushered them inside, glanced around quickly, then closed the door quietly behind him.
�
��Gentlemen,” the captain began, sitting down in one of the large, comfortable chairs and staring up at the standing men, “you know what I want.”
The seven men nodded. Only Dragoneyes dared lounge casually against the door. His knife was out, and a shape was beginning to form in the lump of wood he was carving. Wood shavings floated down to form a pile at his feet. Dumont didn’t care.
“Dragoneyes, Tane, and Jahedrin, I want you to go into the town. Mix with the populace as much as you can. Go into their bars, their brothels, their homes if you can manage it without arousing suspicion.”
The three men grinned, exchanging pleased glances. They’d drawn the soft duty this time.
“But don’t get careless,” Dumont warned. “I don’t want to hear about a mistreated whore or a drunken brawl or even one stolen piece of silver. I’ll condemn it publicly and leave you for the folks of Port d’Elhour to handle. They may not be the Kargat, but I’ll bet they have some unpleasant ways of punishing criminals nonetheless.”
His eyes contained no hint of teasing, and the men knew that he was as good as his word. None of them resented it. Working aboard La Demoiselle had an outrageous set of advantages with a balancing chance of danger, and they had long ago agreed to Dumont’s terms.
“Astyn, Philippe, Brynn, and Kandrix, you take the yawl and scout out the swamp,” Dumont continued, reaching for his pipe and beginning to pack it with a fruity-smelling tobacco. “You all know what I’m looking for. If you see anything I might like, get it.”
The men nodded again.
“Excellent. You’re a fine bunch of lads. Report back to me before the parade tomorrow night. As always, the first of you who brings back something that strikes my fancy gets a night on the town at my expense.” He whistled, then lit his pipe from the blue flame that flickered on the tip of his index finger. “Dismissed.”
The men saluted and filed out of the cabin, using the main doorway rather than the small stairs that led up to the pilothouse. Dumont rose, puffing on his fragrant pipe, and gazed out the porthole.
Dance of the Dead Page 4
